“You need to be upside down too, I mean, if you’re actually going to read that one. Then it’s a whole new genre.” Eli taps the mint tin in his hand against the paperback Meg holds the wrong way up.
“Genius? Obviously. Tragic, beyond doubt.”
Meg, perched on the arm of Eli’s chair in the staff room, lets a giggle fly.
“Downside up.” She watches Eli spin the mint tin between his fingertips, with each full loop broken into two half rotations.
The staff room door creaks open as Maz steps in. With a casual backhand swipe of her wrist, she flicks the edge of the door to send it swinging shut behind her. She reaches the kettle in three firm paces, and along the way catches her fringe before it spills to veil her sight and sweeps it into her bun. Her eyes ping from Eli to Meg, to the floor, to the door, and back to Eli.
Meg, after waiting until Eli looks up with his eyebrow quirked, tips her head backward while she crafts a laugh that sounds too glossy to be spontaneous, not landing on Eli so much as angling around him. The small tattoo of a bat wing under her jawline holds the weak light for a moment.
Maz’s gaze collides with Meg’s for less than a blink before Maz turns to the kitchenette.
Judge, jury, jester.
Eli sinks an elbow onto his knee, still turning the mint tin over and over. Each pinch to stop comes with a click; a push to shift its angle, a skitter; a roll to spin, a rattle.
Maz stands staring at the countertop, tilting a listening ear and a stiff shoulder in Eli’s direction.
You can almost hear the hiss. He’s offering up secrets like cheap stunts. Don’t watch.
When she switches the kettle on, as if on cue, a low rumble starts to thrum under her skin, static crawling up her neck, a bubbling pressure building up behind her ribs.
Her fingers, remaining stiff from clutching her phone and the mint tin outside, struggle with the mug tower. She manages to take one off the top, but the whole stack teeters. A cautious block with the side of her arm steadies it. She puts the cup down and watches it wobble until it tips over.
She withdraws her hand and reaches for her pocket.
You’re not getting into a clattering calamity. Find something other than a cheap ceramic that won’t shatter so easily.
As she slides her phone out and unlocks it, the last comment notification glares back as if it were the solitary thing displayed on the screen.
Might as well.
She taps ‘View’.
***
Comment:
“At the seventh, speak your truth together, or the door forgets you. You want that seam lit, or do you still like the dark?”
– Weaver
***
Her thumb presses on the edge of the screen so hard that a little cracking sound comes from the phone.
The comment stays stuck to the top, stitched in as if it were a flag. She rereads it, more slowly, the words not getting any clearer on the second pass. The third time only makes her pocket the phone.
Do you even know a Weaver or anyone who might talk about a seam? Seventh of what?
Meg’s laughter rises to a pitch that grates on Maz’s ears.
Maz snaps her head up and turns.
“Meg.”
Meg continues to watch Maz, her laughter quietening a little with each passing second.
A muffled jangling buzz rises from Eli’s pocket when his phone vibrates against his keys. He takes it out, and the cold glow of the screen makes him blink rapidly before the notification comes into his focus.
‘– [New comment on a story you follow: “Bind.Breathe.Stay”]’
The mint tin in his hand gives a click as the embossed branding dents under the pressure of his fingers.
Why am I getting this now? She wrote that ages ago. Oh, it’s an old post glitch. It’s nothing. It’s never nothing. I’ll worry about it later.
He swipes the alert away, carries on dismissing the others down the list, one by one, until his finger stutters, taps to reveal the home screen, and lands somewhere unintended.
A messaging thread opens. Maz’s lines and his own, to and fro.
The words, though… They’re not right… right?
He scrolls and stops without reaching its end.
I sort of… what is this? Is it hacked? But… Elysinth, I know that. That’s mine. No idea why I would choose that name. I’ll have to file that under ‘usernames are strange and personal and mean nothing’. Moving on.
His thumb slides down, going backwards through a digital blur of text, then up, forwards to the last message before returning to the top of the thread.
It makes the same amount of sense. None. Almost. Also, somehow, all of it.
He looks up and meets Maz’s eyes across the room.
“Did we write this?”
As Maz approaches, the air between them turns denser, slowing her pace, making each step an effort, as if she has to wade through it. A fine line rises above the arch of her brow, then a squint pulls it back down.
Why does it feel like you’re walking inside a thick cloud?
She drags the lone remaining chair in the room over to him and sits to read with him.
***
➜ Messages
Elysinth: I still have the card you sneaked into my pocket. That never hit the records, did it?
Mazmire: Unlikely. We probably shouldn’t even talk about this right now. The more we remember, the more they’ll take, you know the rules. Apparently memory’s taxable.
***
The boiling rattle of the kettle grows louder.
Maz studies the messages, trying to force some reason into what she sees.
Memory’s taxable? Did you really write that? What card?
Eli tilts his head at the screen as the mint tin in his hand gives a stifled metallic creak.
This sounds private. Still, why would I message her via whatever this is and not just text her?
While their focus stays fixed on the phone, their elbows absentmindedly move a little closer together and bridge the gap with the slightest bump. A static snap shocks them both and allows the thickening air that surrounds them to thin out.
Maz’s opposite hand jumps to Eli’s arm, where the snap just sparked.
What was that?
Eli sets his vacant eyes on an empty corner of the screen. His hand, pinching the mint tin, reaches to cover hers.
Old building, loose wiring, I bet.
They return to reading. But as their hands slip apart, in that sliver of space separating them, a heaviness begins to rebuild.
***
Elysinth: I was trying to memorise your handwriting in case the rest of it went missing. Do you think the Queen noticed us when you wrote my name with a heart on that last file?
Mazmire: Doubt it. Like she could see anything beyond what mattered to her or the throne. However, she did give us a whole word for once. If they wanted their rules kept, they should’ve followed their own well before Cron started showing up.
***
Maz clears her throat, as if she could change the subject on a thread.
You always dot his name with a heart. Is it that? What does a ‘Queen’ have to do with it? But… Pretty sure you never wrote ‘Elysinth’ anywhere.
Eli sits back, and the motion appears slower than logic allows.
Queen. Cron. Why do they sound like bad news? If there was a file, I should at least be able to remember that.
Meg watches them with furrowed brows from the armrest of Eli’s chair. Her nails click on the paperback in her hand before she lets her elbow hang over the back, and her serpent cuff scrapes the top edge of the plastic.
Both Maz’s and Eli’s senses remain centred on the phone, while neither pays any mind to the dense air that still weighs between them.
Meg lets her leg swing loose and catches the chair for a feigned kick. None of them react. She lifts the paperback and drops it on the floor behind the chair. Nobody responds to her. She stares upwards, mouthing curses, as Maz and Eli carry on reading.
***
Elysinth: Now we’re the paperwork. New gods might even be sorting them as we leave. I say, let them, they’ll lose us twice in the audit. If you want to return, say the word. There’s always room for an appeal. Unless we treat this as an undocumented holiday.
Mazmire: ‘Exile’ does have a fancy hotel name ring to it. No, I’m not going back, even if they find the good wine they suddenly misplaced and the Ferryman forgets his fee.
***
The final line Meg reads over Eli’s shoulder brings a sudden, rigid arrest to her spine. She extends her arms, uncurling them into a languid reach towards either side of her, as if performing a morning stretch.
Eli turns to Maz.
“You never say ‘Ferryman’ unless you’re–”
Meg coughs beside him, and it sounds practised.
Maz looks at Eli instead of Meg and tries to laugh it off.
“I must have been drunk. I never…”
She glances at the boiling kettle.
Is there a password here somewhere? For what exactly? Nope. You’re imagining things. Are you?
Eli manages half a grin.
“Since when do you get drunk?” He aims to sound humorous, but his brows question his own sentence.
Maz and Eli return to the phone.
***
Elysinth: Call ‘truth’ and I’ll stop everything to follow, even if we’re forbidden to remember where.
Mazmire: If you get turned around, follow the noise and trust the squirrel. We don’t have to call the word for them. That part is ours.
***
The fluorescents overhead pop and flicker on and off, chewing on a secret.
Maz catches a whiff that gives her goosebumps.
Stamp ink? Here in the staff room that doesn’t even have any pens in that pen holder? Don’t be silly.
A pipe beneath the floorboards clicks in a pattern. Eli taps the tin in reply.
Right. What am I reading here? What’s that supposed to mean? A riddle or instructions?
***
Elysinth: I can feel that we’re already slipping past the threshold. We’ll lose this connection soon. So, if forgetting comes, know that we’re at least bound to find each other. We’re still us. Half legend, half clerical blunder. All in.
Mazmire: All in. All ours. Still always.
***
Meg coughs once more, a sound akin to tearing linen, before she hops off the armrest and breezes past them.
“Enough, weirdos, back to work. The boss wants the till neat. No overtime. We’ve got pub after close.” She flicks a used spoon off the countertop, sending it in an arc. It hits the top of the microwave and clatters behind it as she turns to the door.
“First round’s on the microwave, then.”
The door slams closed after she leaves.
Eli lowers the phone and watches Maz’s attention drift to his hand.
Her eyes land on a burn scar, mirrored on the pads of his thumb and forefinger.
Have you seen that before? It looks like… he held a scorched card between them. Probably quite some time ago. Even if he did, what would’ve made him hold onto it long enough to leave a mark? Why don’t you remember seeing it?
She glances up to catch his gaze sliding over to the side of her neck.
He gazes at a ribbon of silver skin, smooth and discoloured red.
I don’t think I ever noticed that at some point. When did that happen? Some sort of fabric? Could’ve been a necklace she wore so long it left a… No, no, I would’ve at least seen that at some point. Is it a burn? No, it’s like something was… yanked off? I’ll file that under… nothing, and I’m… not moving on.
Advance chapters available on Patreon now! https://www.patreon.com/TolaLone